


Aftermath

by AustenlySummers



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-09 04:02:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17399684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AustenlySummers/pseuds/AustenlySummers
Summary: Will makes a mistake.Hannibal cleans up the mess.





	Aftermath

        There were few things Will could do to make Hannibal truly angry.  The young man was as reckless as he was wild, deviations that linked hand-in-hand and proved impossible for even Hannibal to tame.  He’d long since learned to overlook the man’s imperfections; for what William lacked in class he made up with primal complexity. He was a specimen Hannibal enjoyed to study, enjoyed subtly nudging towards the finer things in life: curbing William’s penchant for whiskey with fine wines, and preparing lavish meals to replace the greasy fast food he’d watched the man swallow down without a thought.  In their time together, Hannibal had come to find the other’s appearance of casual normalcy almost appealing, knowing well enough that under the thick flannels and unruly curls lay the masterpiece of a mind Hannibal indulged himself in daily. For that alone, Hannibal was more than happy to forgive the minor misdeeds. In fact, he’d forgive Will for just about anything, but this time was different.  

        This time, Will had crossed a boundary Hannibal had laid clear long before they’d started their intricate dance. 

        This time, Will made a mistake.

        It was not a minor abhorrence, not the sting of irritation when Will rolled his eyes at his partner’s choice of music, or when he failed to appreciate a particularly well crafted blend of seasonings.  This mistake held consequences. This was a mistake made while  _ hunting. _

        Hannibal didn’t often allow Will to hunt with him.  Of course, he relished the results of his lover’s feral bloodlust, but  _ hunting,  _ the collection of meat, was a delicate process.  It was one he preferred to do alone. 

        That night however, Will had been restless.  He had barely touched his food at dinner. He stalked around the house with long, purposeful strides, though Hannibal knew he had nowhere to go.  He had reluctantly decided that a night of succumbing to base desires may prove beneficial to his young lover. He’d only told Will to follow his lead -- not wanting a a wild and unfettered animal prowling on it’s own --, but as wild animals do, Will broke free from Hannibal’s side to go running off on his own. 

        The chase had been too much too soon.  

        Will’s scream pierced the silence.  The following chain of events were a blur.  

        Hannibal found them in the dense undergrowth: an overzealous beast and the frightened prey.  While Hannibal could appreciate the sinewy strength of his wolfish lover, Will was a fool for believing he could capture their target on his own.  Hannibal remembered the knife. He remembered the sirens. He remembered the flash of blue and white lights breaking the dark around them. He remembered the warmth of the blood that hit his face as he finished their victim with a swift slash to the jugular.  It was a waste of a kill. 

        He’d dragged the limp heap of his lover over his shoulder, silently praying William’s carelessness hadn’t contaminated the crime scene.  He only just managed to escape without being seen. Hannibal hated being rushed. It was an unforgivable act second only to leaving a mess, both of which had transpired due to his love’s wild inhibitions. 

        They’d taken the mess with them.  They tracked mud and dirt and blood into the pristine foyer of Hannibal’s home.  Hannibal was soaked with it: the victim’s blood, William’s blood. He could smell it, dark and sweet and metallic, and feel the warmth as it soaked through his clothes and stuck to his skin.  

       Another unforgivable sin:

       In his carelessness, Will had gotten himself hurt.  

       The young man was deposited into the bathtub with an unnecessary, “Stay there.”  

        Will’s response was low groan.  His vision was blurred. His world was fading.  Hannibal was gone for only a matter of minutes, but it seemed like hours before Will was roused by a glass being shoved under his nose.  

        “Drink.”

_         Orange juice _ , Will noted briefly, taking the glass from Hannibal’s hand.  As he tipped the liquid down his throat, the sweet tang of orange was mixed with something far more familiar.  Even in his annoyance, Hannibal had extended the kindness of hard liquor to ease the effects of William’s pain.  

        “Hannibal --” 

        “No,” the doctor silenced him, taking the empty glass from Will and setting it aside.  He said nothing else, focusing entirely on the patient in front of him, stripping Will of his shirt and revealing the extent of the damage beneath. 

        The wound glistened darkly in Will’s side.  Hannibal didn’t need any further examination to prove the severity of the wound.  It was deep and it would scar but it would heal. The thought made Hannibal bite the inside of his cheek in a moment of unbridled disgust.  He hated when other men left marks on his beloved. There was a lesson to be taught, he decided, reaching for the med kit he had brought back to the washroom with him.  He would reopen the wound once it had healed if only to watch it scar a second time, twisted and cruel, but with intentions undoubtedly his own. 

        “Hannibal.”

        “That’s enough,” Hannibal hushed Will a second time.  “You have disappointed me greatly, William.”

        The message was clear:

        We’re not discussing this tonight.  

        Will let his head fall back against the edge of the tub with a soft groan.  He could hear Hannibal tinkering with whatever he’d brought up with him. It didn’t take long before the splotches at the edges of his vision were chased away by the sharp sting of pain directed to the already throbbing pulse of his open wound.  

        “Remain still, William.  I must clean the wound before I stitch it.”

        Will grit his teeth, wishing now for a bottle of whatever whiskey Hannibal had previously spiked his drink with.  The doctor was not gentle and one shot was not enough to numb the pain brought on by Hannibal’s work. It spared William the grievance of trying to explain his actions… to apologise for the mistakes he only half understood he’d made . 

        “You need a bath.”  

        Will cracked open an eyelid to protest, but Hannibal was already reaching for the taps.  It was only when his partner leaned over him that Will got a good look at Hannibal. The man was soaked with blood, but William couldn’t be sure whose.  His face was painted with it. His eyes were the only thing to betray the carefully neutral expression of his lover. When Will Hannibal’s gaze all he could see was the burning disappointment and the anger he knew was directed at him.  

        Will swallowed hard.  He wanted to speak. He felt compelled to apologise, to reach out and try to make things  _ right _ .  Instead, he sat silently as Hannibal began to wash him, cleaning the mud and sweat and blood from his skin.  Hannibal’s touch had gentled somewhat, careful to move Will in ways as not to pull at the fresh stitches. With his skin cleared and his hair washed, Will was carefully lifted from the dirtied bathwater.  

        The world spun briefly, but Hannibal steadied him.  He wiped him down with a soft towel and guided him into bed.  Will sunk into the down pillows gratefully. The last thing he remembered before succumbing to the dark at the corners of his vision was the image of Hannibal standing above him -- soaked and bloodied -- and a soft utterance of, “Rest now, William.”  

  
  



End file.
